No Good Deed
by Godspeed Revolution
Summary: A look at a moment of a killer's life. Kirill is on holiday and just wants to be left alone with his bottle. Chapter 2: Kirill is feeling neighborly.
1. On Holiday

Disclaimer: Character property of Universal.

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><p>There were three dents in the steel safety door of 421D, all from a 9mm semiautomatic. Kirill considered this fortunate. So far, they had only gotten three bullets into his door.<p>

He fumbled through his pockets, trying to remember where he'd put his keys. They were usually in his right hip pocket, always the same place so he would be able to retrieve them instantly. But he had forgotten today.

Kirill was becoming angry. Mostly with himself. The last job had been two weeks ago and it had gone down perfectly. Yevgeny was dead, and Khorishko had the contents of the safe from Tevrishev Securities, Inc. in his grateful possession. The client was happy, Kirill was paid, and that constituted, in his mind, a job well done and an excuse for a holiday.

Kirill muttered a curse and readjusted the paper bag to a more secure position under his arm, patting his coat and hoping to hell he wouldn't have to go back outside in the sludge for his keys. This was sloppy. He was getting slow and careless and that was a bad idea in his business. Men got killed when they got sloppy. Men got killed when they lost their keys and had to stand outside their doors, backs to the stairs and head fuzzy from alcohol.

Grumbling under his breath, he finally located the keys. He was about to insert it into the lock when he remembered to check the safeguards. Before he left, he'd rubbed a smear of wax over the keyhole. If anyone had tampered with it, he'd know.

No, the seal was still intact. Clutching the paper bag again, he went into his apartment.

Moscow is one of the most expensive cities in Europe. Flats like this weren't cheap, but by the standards of other cities, it wasn't much to look at. Three rooms, linoleum, gray walls, two windows. Kirill always chose apartments on the third story. Any lower and it was too easy for anyone to break into. Any higher and jumping out the window was risky. It was an all right place, but he still wished for the old place in Munich.

He threw the keys on a table next to the sofa, then made the rounds. There were no closets in his flat, so he only had to stick his head into the bedroom and bathroom to check for intruders. No one today.

Kirill sagged onto the sofa and closed his eyes. Two weeks. Yuri said he would have another two off before he needed him. He was halfway through his holiday and already he was slipping up. He knew he should be more careful. He knew he should care more. But somehow, he didn't.

He turned the television on and left it on the same station, volume turned down so low it was just faint murmurs and warm, flashing lights. He stared at it for a while, eyes unfocused, while he thought about the Tevrishev job. He'd gotten paid, so it was good. He'd killed a man, so he needed the paper bag today.

He pulled the bottle from the bag and unscrewed the cap. He could afford better stuff, but he bought the cheap stuff because he was used to it. After a while, he couldn't taste it anyway.

In two weeks, he would have to sober up. Slow the consumption of alcohol until he could hold a gun straight again. Then back to business. Business was hard. He took a swig from the bottle.

"You took my car, you fucking whore! I'm gonna beat your face in!"

Kirill stirred from his seat and turned his head towards the door. Someone was yelling in the hall. Probably the couple in 406. They were always fighting.

"Stop it, stop it! You leave me here, no one to help, what do you expect me to do?" a woman's voice shouted back, angry and tearful.

"Don't you talk to me like that! Don't you _talk _to me like that!" a man said, and Kirill heard her face being slapped. He put his head on the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

"You _touch_ my car again—" here the man broke off, and there were tussling sounds and cried of pain. For a few seconds after, there was only muffled sobbing.

"Get that kid outta my sight or I swear to God I'm gonna—"

"You stay away from him! Help! Someone call the police!" the woman shouted, now hysterical.

Kirill heard more doors opening, neighbors peering out through their doors, no doubt. Maybe someone even would call the police. He tried to shut it all out. Shut down everything. Disappear inside that bottle. But all he could hear was the woman sobbing and a child adding its crying voice to the din.

"Come here, now I'll kill you, bitch. Shut up, you think you'll go to the police? I told you to get up!"

In a fluid movement, Kirill stood up, walked to the door, and pulled it open. He saw a man towering over a woman crouched on the floor, a boy of about four clinging to her sweater. The man grabbed her collar, pulling her to a kneel as he swore and buffeted her face. Several pairs of eyes glinted through cracks in the doorways, watching the scene, doing nothing.

Kirill crossed the hallway with calm steps, grabbed the man by the back of his coat, and slammed him into the wall. He used his left elbow to hold his neck tight against the wall. His right hand was occupied with his gun. He held it somewhere against the side of the man's face.

"Shut up. Stop talking," he said. No one spoke.

The man's eyes went wide, his mouth very small all of the sudden. He looked from the gun to Kirill to the woman and child on the floor. Even the boy was silent.

"Stop bothering them. Just shut up and leave them alone," Kirill said. The man was too frightened to speak, or even nod. He only looked at the gun and Kirill's face. Kirill kept it there for a moment, but the scene was over. He wished he was back inside his apartment with his bottle.

He released the man and put his gun away. A quick glance over the hallway revealed the barely cracked doors pulling even tighter, the occupants preparing to slam and lock them. The woman watched him warily, hanging onto her child's hand as he whimpered.

"You need a car? You can use my car. Just ask me and I'll let you." The woman nodded without smiling. When she wasn't yelling or crying, she was almost pretty, with soft yellow hair hanging around her face. The boy was a tiny reflection of her, head a halo of pale curls. They both looked at him with fear.

"_Eto piz`dets_," Kirill muttered to himself. He strode to his pockmarked door, passing the woman in 418 who distinctly said "_Mafiya_" before closing her door and clicking the lock.

Once inside, Kirill turned up the volume on his television and got to work on finishing his bottle. He had two weeks left of his holiday. He was determined it would be a good one.

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><p>AN: I've gotta stop writing about killers. Anyway, this little story is my attempt to show Kirill like he is in the movie, compared to how he tends to appear in fanfiction (some of which is nonetheless quite enjoyable). Go to TVtropes dot org and search for "Draco in Leather Pants". You will learn all you need to know.


	2. What Masha Did

_Click. Click._

Masha's heels snapped on the hard linoleum floor in the hallway of the third floor. She took two steps towards the door of 421D, paused, spun around, and walked back to her own door. A sigh escaped her lips. Why was she so nervous? She thought of herself as stronger than this, tougher than this. After all her years, everything she'd seen in her line of work, _this_ was stopping her? Six years working for Dima and she was too afraid to knock on this door? Masha didn't think of herself as that kind of girl.

She closed her eyes, feet planted before her door, clenched her fists tight and took a deep, calming breath. Her face now composed, she turned around, smoothing out her hair and skirt as she walked back to the door of number 421D. She tried to coax a smile to her rouged lips. It felt like it was there, but these days, it was tough to pull it off.

Bracing herself once more, she gave the steel safety door a quick, assertive rap. It sounded too loud in the deserted hallway and she bit back a grimace. As she waited, she couldn't help but notice the three dents in the door, looking very much like they had been made by bullets.

Silence. Perhaps she hadn't knocked hard enough. She was loath to make more sound, already feeling like her nerve was slipping, wondering if she should just run back down the hall to her own apartment. The thought was tempting, but she needed to do this. If there was one thing Masha was good at, it was getting the job done.

Telling herself to get a grip, she delivered three hard knocks to the door. Could he have already left? She'd seen him come in early that morning, passed him on the stairwell as she'd escorted Lev outside to the school bus. The man in 421D hadn't spoken to her, hadn't even really looked at her except for a brief, cursory glance with those hard eyes. Sizing up a skinny woman and her child, before dismissing them as nonthreatening. No recognition of the scene that had occurred outside their flats only two weeks ago…

Still nothing. Should she call through the door? She considered this for a moment before realizing she didn't even know his name. What would she say? And perhaps he was simply ignoring her, regretting the offer he'd made that day and waiting for her to leave.

It was tempting, but Masha could not allow it. Her mother had told her growing up that her stubbornness would be the death of her one day. Maybe it was true. But she hated to give up, and it needed to be done.

"Hello? Excuse me, please. I'm—I'm the woman from across the hall, we, well, met before and, well—"

Suddenly, she heard the sound of locks being disengaged on the other side of the door. Falling silent, she waited, wondering how she hadn't heard him approaching.

After a few more seconds of clinking metal and rattling chains, the door cracked open. It was just far enough to see the outline of a masculine face shrouded in shadows, one eye visible and glinting like gunmetal. Masha swallowed, thought about all the things she'd done and seen in Dima's employ, and spoke.

"Yes, hello. I hope you don't mind. I live just over there—" she pointed down the hall, watching as his eye swooped towards her door—"with my little boy. You, eh, helped us out the other day." She was pleased her voice did not sound frightened, but she could not quite manage to disguise the strain she was feeling.

"I remember," he said. He pulled the door open a little more, and she caught a better glimpse of him. He still had that cold, rigid look in his eyes, but they were sharp and clear, instead of glassy with drink like last time. This was a small relief, and she tried to take some courage from it. His clothing, although the same drab and dark attire, at least looked freshly pressed and tidy.

Masha felt instinctively that this was a man who appreciated bluntness, so she decided to come straight to the point. "Look, I don't know if you really meant it, but you said I could use your car sometime if I asked," she said in a steady voice. The man looked at her with his brutal eyes, face unchanged. Just when she was beginning to think this had been a big mistake, and he was going to slam the door in her face or worse, he nodded, pulled the door wide and stepped aside.

"Come in for a minute. I just need to get my car keys." He did not wait for her to reply but stepped away, somewhere into the dimly lit apartment. Masha took a quick glance in the hallway, wondering how long it would take anyone to notice if she never returned. Probably just until Dima came asking where she was and why she wasn't working. She stepped into the flat, slightly uncomfortable in the semi-darkness. He had all his blinds drawn, even in the late morning. Despite the darkness, it was very clean, although sparsely furnished. She wondered if he kept it up himself or if he paid someone to keep it that way.

Without much warning, he appeared beside her, silent as a cat. His movements reminded her very much of a panther, even more so with his dark clothing. The keys jingled in his hand as he swiftly exited the room. "Where do you want to go?" he asked in a clipped voice, waiting for her to catch up in the hallway. Following, she watched him lock two sets of dead bolts in the steel door, thinking again about the bullet marks.

"The drugstore outside Kolyavna," she said.

"I know it," he replied tersely. With brisk steps, he proceeded down the stairwell, ignoring the elevator at the far end of the hall. Not wanting to be left behind waiting for the lift, Masha hurried after him, although she wondered why he didn't take it like everyone else.

He was several steps ahead of her and reached the bottom first. She caught up to see him standing expectantly, a slightly disgruntled look on his face. Of course, he usually looked like that, the few times she'd stopped to notice.

He led her out a side door into the parking lot, Masha a step behind. He moved quickly to a sleek, black sedan with dark tinted windows. With a tiny shudder, Masha remembered the whispers in the building of mafiya connections. But she had to admit, it was definitely better than Dima's car.

He didn't bother to hold the door open for her, which Masha was glad of. Even after all her experience with men, he made her slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it was his habit of speaking so little, or his icy eyes. Whatever it was, she didn't want him closer to her than he had to be and was suddenly feeling apprehensive about sitting next to him for the entire ride. She reminded herself again that it needed to be done.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine rumbling. Masha shifted in her seat, pulling down her skirt a little so it covered more of her legs and wishing she had worn something more conservative. She thought about the gun he had pulled those two weeks ago and wondered where it was now. If those whispers were true, he probably carried it with him all the time.

"My name is Masha, by the way. I forgot to tell you," she said as he shifted into reverse.

"Kirill," he said without looking at her, eyes on the rearview mirror as he backed out of the stall.

"Nice to meet you," she murmured automatically, looking out her window. She was already feeling like it was going to be a long ride.

He did indeed seem to know the way to the drugstore. He drove with speed and precision, confidently navigating the congested streets and seeming to know exactly the right routes to avoid the worst of the traffic. They sat in silence for a while, Masha wishing he would turn on the radio or something just to cut through the silence. She was about to ask herself when he broke it first.

"Are you sick?" He kept his eyes on the road, constantly scanning the streets, checking his mirrors without moving his head.

"What?" she asked, caught off guard. "Oh, the drugstore. No, it's for my son, Lev. He has an ear infection. I had the prescription filled yesterday but there are no bus routes for the right time. He needs it when he comes home from school." She stared out the windscreen when the impassive side of his face became too uncomfortable to look at. "I can't use Dima's car anymore—well, you know," she finished quietly.

"Is he his father?" Kirill asked with a quick glance to her face.

"No." Masha was embarrassed to feel her throat closing up. She cleared it to get the next words out. "He's my…boss."

Kirill said nothing, eyes now back on the road. Masha instinctively felt he understood what she didn't say anyway and felt a wave of irrational anger towards him. It was her life, and besides, who was he to judge? The atmosphere in the car became stuffy after their short conversation, Masha counting the streets until they would arrive at their destination.

Finally, the corner where the drugstore was located came into sight. Kirill pulled the car into a space near the front and killed the engine. Masha went for the door handle, but paused and looked back at him. "I do what I have to, to support my son. It's not easy." She stared at him, daring him to challenge her, to pass judgment on her.

"I know. It's never easy," he said. Masha felt her heart tightening, surprised by the sadness in his voice, chilled too by his deadened tone. She held it there for a second, then stepped from the car.

The prescription was ready and waiting for her. She picked it up, paid with several crumpled bills, and went back outside. Kirill was still waiting for her, hunched over the steering wheel, dark eyes scanning the parking lot in a constant, steady motion. Seeing her coming, he started up the car again. "That everything?" he asked, his voice clipped. Masha wondered if she'd offended him, but she couldn't think of anything that would have angered him. He shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the drugstore.

"Thanks for the ride," she said softly, suddenly wondering if she ought to pay him for the effort. But no, he had offered it himself, hadn't he, and besides, with a car like this, he couldn't exactly be hurting for money.

"It's no problem," he said with gritted teeth. Masha raised her eyebrows in dismay. He sounded like he was barely containing his anger, but it was such a sudden turnaround from his previous indifference that she could not understand what she'd done to cause it. She turned towards her own window, frowning. Then, a thought occurred to her. She looked at him, suddenly noticing the rigidness of his spine, how gingerly he set his arms around the steering wheel.

"You're hurt, aren't you?" she asked, eyes wide.

"I'm fine," he said, teeth still gritted. Masha knew exactly his type of man—the kind who would rather bleed to death in an alleyway than admit to anyone else he needed help. "It's your side, isn't it? Let me see—" she made a grab to pull up the side of his shirt, reaching across the space between them. She only managed to expose a couple inches of skin, enough to see deeply bruised flesh from a fresh injury, before he jerked away, lurching the car in the process and almost sending it careening into a street vendor. Masha pulled back quickly.

"It's nothing. A couple of broken ribs. Nothing can be done for it, except let it heal on its own," he growled, voice gruff from pain and irritation.

"You should go to the hospital," she muttered anyway.

"No. Not for me," he said, a strange look on his face. It was part melancholy, part anger. Masha couldn't guess what, or who, he was angry with. He gave her a glance, eyes softened just a fraction. "Life's tough, isn't it? But we do what we have to do," he said, and the icy expression came back to his eyes.

Masha shivered. Lev would be home soon, and she had his medicine. She'd done what she had to do. That's what mattered.

She was surprised when Kirill pulled up to their building. The ride back had felt a lot shorter, although that was probably because they had avoided the awkward silences. They pulled into the same parking space and Kirill turned off the car. He climbed out in a very good show of not being in any pain, a true professional. They went into the building together, and same as before, eschewed the lift to take the three flights of stairs up. In their shared hallway, Kirill paused at her door.

"Tell me if Dima bothers you again," he said.

"What will you do?" Masha asked. From any other man it would have sounded like playful teasing, but from this one, she knew it wasn't.

"I'll think of something," he said. They looked at each other, and after a moment he broke away and went back to his own flat, with the three bullet marks and pair of dead bolts.

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><p>AN: What do you know, it turned into a two-shot. There could be more, although I'm pretty content to leave it like it is. Tell me what you think.


End file.
